Free The Unprofessionals by Julie Hecht Page B

formal evening gowns standing around in the driveway.”
    â€œThat sounds like a teenage fantasy,” I said. “Six girls in gowns appear in your driveway while you’re looking out your window one night.”
    â€œMaybe, but they weren’t that pretty,” he said. “A couple were Asian.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that?” I said.
    â€œI thought in the fantasy they would all look like Grace Kelly.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “I see. That again. But how could they be wearing just gowns in the icy weather?”
    â€œThey had little sweaters,” he said.
    I knew the style. But all I could imagine for the gowns was the kind of dress Grace Kelly wore in Rear Window, when she’s all dressed up and stuck in an apartment with James Stewart in Greenwich Village. “Why didn’t you go down to help them?” I asked.
    â€œWell I did, eventually. But first I wanted to see what they would do. I knew where there was a trowel, or some tools and shovels in the garage, but I waited a bit. After a while they knocked on the door and asked for help. I said, ‘We might have something in the garage.’”
    â€œWasn’t that cruel?”
    â€œPossibly, but I don’t like their old seventies jalopy in our driveway. It’s an embarrassment to our cars. And how could they have left it for months of snowstorms and thought they could just come and easily pick it up?”
    â€œDid you help them?”
    â€œNo. I stayed up in my room and watched. It was nice enough of me to leave my homework and other activities and go down to the garage and give them the equipment. Don’t you think?”
    â€œHow long did it take them?”
    â€œThey were kind of hysterical. They had a prom or a dance to go to. They were, like, ‘Oh no, we’ll be late for the prom,’ or whatever. They dug for a while and gave up.”
    â€œDid you invite them in for some shelter?”
    â€œThey didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. They went back in this one girl’s car that they’d come in. Who knows what they did. Now the car is still there, half dug out, half visible in its seventies unsightliness, and a continuing embarrassment to us.”
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    DURING THE early high-school years the boy sounded happy once or twice. One night he answered the phone in a boisterous manner I’d never heard him use. He was calling out in a competitive way to his college-girl babysitter. She had moved in for a week to cook, drive, and be a companion while his parents were away.
    â€œShe’s really my cousin’s girlfriend,” he said. “It’s not a true business arrangement.” He’d already told me a number of descriptions of her, and other girlfriends of boys he knew.
    â€œIsn’t her face out of proportion to her body?” he’d said.
    â€œIs it the one with the large chest?” I asked. This was all I could remember other than some extra-good manners.
    â€œThese string beans are delicious,” I’d heard her say to the boy’s mother at a dinner where boiled soft string beans had been served. The beans had turned gray from the method of cooking.
    â€œIt’s the fault of the guests,” the boy’s father had said when the boy’s mother had announced the condition of the string beans. “They were late. The vegetables overcooked.”
    â€œThat too,” the boy said when I mentioned the chest size. “It’s the tiny facial features with the body that’s disconcerting. We think a plastic surgeon worked on the face.
    â€œShe comes for a week with seventeen sweaters and a bag full of shampoo,” he whispered into the phone. “You owe me eight thousand dollars!” he called to her.
    â€œI’m beating her at every game,” he said.
    â€œHow do you pay each other the debts?” I asked.
    â€œI offered to pay her from my stock account.”
    â€œWhat if you